Monday, July 28, 2008
Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this
DOB: July 25, 2008
Occupation: making everybody who had a piece of this seriously consider the extent of their alcoholism
Hometown: our dirty hot waiter's apron at El Rey del Sol
Current residence: the financial ledgers at El Rey del Sol
Douchebaggery: I'm generally a pretty thirsty bar patron, but every once in a while I drink so much alcohol that I even surprise myself. Last Friday night was one of those occasions. My friend JerseyGirl throws these happy hours, primarily because she likes any excuse to make an Evite about getting shitfaced. At almost all of these events, I get wasted and very frequently laid with one of the horny gentlemen working with JerseyGirl in the trenches of cable news production. However, at this most recent occasion, JerseyGirl recently broke up with her boyfriend, I've been stressed to the point of almost getting my old poetry notebook out and scrawling out some appalling verse, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy's mom just passed away, and Twathopper's been lamenting her usual incompetence at lesbianism, so this happy hour could be a "quiet night out" with closer friends. There weren't as many random cubicle neighbors Evited as usual.
In hindsight, it was probably a mistake not to throw the usual bar-banger, because instead of leaving early to pork some hot swarthy employee of MSNBC or FOX News, I stayed until the finale when the bill arrived, and I was HAMMERED. I was so drunk that on the way home, I almost fell asleep in the cab, something I've sworn never to do ever since my first year in New York I wound up with a cabdriver who started jerking off on the Henry Hudson where there was no escape for me. With those kind of guys taking drunk bitches home, there's no way I'm going to get unconscious and trust the driver will wake me at my humble tenement rather than in some abandoned alley in the Bronx where he'll rape me and dump my lifeless body for the Special Victims Unit to find. I was so drunk that the simple task of staying semi-conscious was a Herculean feat on the way home. I was really, really drunk.
That's why I was not surprised to recall later that we drank over NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS WORTH OF MARGARITA PITCHERS. I remember being surprised at the time, and raving about "there is NO WAY we drank that much! I'm practically sober!" like the truly delusional drunk-ass bitch I was by the time the waiter closed us out. "NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS?!? Wait, we didn't REALLY drink that much...did we?" Okay, well some of that was the tip and tax, and in fairness we ate a paltry $31 worth of nachos, but otherwise we drank probably literally twenty five extraordinarily stiff pitchers of tequila-based cocktails...among a maximum of twenty people, some of whom didn't drink much. As I estimate that around 15 of us drank margaritas, that means we each had 1.67 pitchers each over the course of around four hours. Even for boozehounds like us, that is a shitload of well tequila to consume.
It's not surprising that the next day, many of the attendees reported incapacitating hangovers. I myself was miraculously not clutching the toilet bowl for the next twelve hours (a hangover that in my case seems to be reserved almost exclusively for mixing liquor nights, like when I switch back and forth between scotch, G&Ts, and vodka-Red Bulls). I was, however, very glad when my afternoon drinking plans were canceled so that I could convalesce and make amends to my own liver, because I still felt like shit. I need to remember this the next time we hit up a margarita happy hour, or I'm going to be calling Schick Shadel sooner than later.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, FalloniusMonk, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, Rack, Twathopper
Monday, July 21, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nate Dogg
DOB: August 19, 1969
Occupation: down (but not out) hook singer
Hometown: Long Beach, California
Current residence: Pomona, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I spent all weekend sharing the extremely distressing news about Nate Dogg's criminal problems and recent stroke with my friends, who were just as upset to discover this as I was. Since I'm the closest thing to a doctor in our little circle, I had to field a lot of questions about his medical condition. Not surprisingly, the most pressing concern I addressed related to whether or not smoking weed every day as Nate Dogg admittedly does can predispose a gangsta for a cerebrovascular accident at such a young age. Unfortunately, I haven't been keeping up on the literature concerning the likelihood that weed by the barrel in one's G'd up apparel increases one's risk for a premature stroke. In fact, I don't even have to check out PubMed to know that such studies haven't even been done, much less published in a peer-reviewed journal.
On Saturday, I got up at the crack of dawn to hit the LIRR for a beach day with my girls Rack and FalloniusMonk. On the way, when I informed them of the latest in Nate Dogg news, they got over their initial shock and horror and advised me that Rack probably gets the prize for Nate Dogg-philia among our friends. Rack actually owns Nate Dogg's solo CD, which is a whole other level of adoration. I didn't even know Nate Dogg had a solo CD. In fact, back in college, one of my drug deal–I mean, BUSINESS associates, the Byrdman, was listening to my Chronic 2001 CD with me and I wondered why Nate Dogg didn't have a more productive solo career. "Think about it, Razzy," he said. "You really want to hear a whole album of 'smoke weed every day'?"
I thought about it, and realized that Nate Dogg is probably best when his talents are used judiciously in conjunction with some talented West Coast rapper. However, Rack came to a different conclusion, and thus FalloniusMonk purchased her a copy of Nate Dogg's 2001 solo effort Music and Me. Rack loves this CD so much that she still maintains the entire thing on her iPod. When our drunk asses were trying to stay awake after a long day swimming and swilling gin and tequila in 95-degree sunshine all day on the train ride back to Penn Station, she passed me an earphone and cranked the Nate D-O-double G. I was immediately snapped out of my alcoholic stupor and was soon singing loudly "your wife, my bitch, your love, my trick, her mouth, my dick, I fucked, that's it" to the frowning disapproval of the fat Greek woman next to me. Since her ample, cellulite-dimpled ass was spilling out of her stretch capris into my seat and thus offending me horribly, I figured my verbalizing profane Nate Dogg lyrics made us even in the affront department.
If only this had been available when I was in college; it would have been alongside "Ain't No Fun (If the Homies Can't Have None)" and "The Chronic Outro" (AKA "Bitches Ain't Shit but Hoes and Tricks") in my treasured collection of feminist-angering anthems to blast out my window for disrupting the frequent vagina-centric candlelight vigils occurring in the Smith College Quad. Man, I miss those days. There's nothing more satisfying than bumping some West Coast flava while simultaneously interrupting some dumb self-righteous, overprivileged twats at a $30K per annum liberal arts college while they're trying to whine at/lecture me about the women in Afghanistan or female genital mutilation or whatever other cause du jour.
Anyho, I stand corrected on Nate Dogg's skills as a solo artist, and Rack has promised to burn a copy of Music and Me for my auditory pleasure. I again salute Nate Dogg, and wish him a speedy resolution to both his legal and neurological woes. I can't do much to help him legally or medically (although I'm pleased that he has a sweet Cobra head pimp cane to assist him with ambulation until he's fully rehabilitated), but I can try to offer my moral support by spreading his gospel. Enjoy "Your Wife":
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, FalloniusMonk, hot dudes, Rack, rap
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Hottest Smith alumnae on the planet
It's that time of the quarter again! What time, you ask? Time for the new edition of the Smith Alumnae Quarterly! What do you mean, "I didn't go to Smith, I don't get the Smith Alumnae Quarterly?" You don't have to go to Smith to read the greatest magazine in the world! Who wouldn't want to read articles about subjects like a scrappy band of student activists creatively calling themselves "Coke Off Campus" rallied together on behalf of bottling plant employees in Colombia (seriously, they bottle COKE at sweatshops...in Colombia?) and India to ban Coca-Cola products from the Campus Center, or how some chick got a job at Google thanks to the all-powerful alumnae network (which, I should add, has yet to do shit for me besides give Tej Bindra my home address so she could conspire with her friends to get me raped by an inadvertent pervert on Craigslist)? This shit is more informative than the damn Economist!
Okay, I kid...I don't even get the SAQ anymore since I think they put me on probation after the Tej Offensive, which was started by Tej Bindra '07 calling me an assfuck and suggesting I get some Zoloft to treat my tendency to make fun of dumb SAQ articles about the dorm room she shared with her fellow flatchested Dar Williams aficionado. The last time I got a SAQ, I promptly douchebagged the entire magazine, and I think that was the last straw that broke the cameltoe's back. Presumably they booted me from the subscription list, because I haven't received a SAQ since. Oh well, who needs a SAQ to prove that she's got a "baccalaureum artibus" degree from Smith when she's got a fancy leather bound diploma--with seals and Latin and everything--tucked safely away in her bedside table with her vibrators, condoms, and lube?
Anyway, there's a section in the back of the SAQ that you can send updates to about whatever the fuck you've been up to at Smith. Usually it's along the lines of "some dumb bitch from Talbot House got married" or "some dumb bitch from Chase House just had her second kid" or "some dumb bitch from Northrop House just got another master's degree." Luckily, my friends have JerseyGirl to send in our updates. JerseyGirl is on the board of the Smith College Club of New York, and while she's given up trying to get me to do things like attend Christmas tree lightings on Sundays during NFL season or go to $100-a-head art history lectures, she felt duty bound to report on how our little group of friends has been keeping busy. Unfortunately, she probably had one too many brewdogs before she sent off our update:
Go Pioneers!
Anyway, there's a section in the back of the SAQ that you can send updates to about whatever the fuck you've been up to at Smith. Usually it's along the lines of "some dumb bitch from Talbot House got married" or "some dumb bitch from Chase House just had her second kid" or "some dumb bitch from Northrop House just got another master's degree." Luckily, my friends have JerseyGirl to send in our updates. JerseyGirl is on the board of the Smith College Club of New York, and while she's given up trying to get me to do things like attend Christmas tree lightings on Sundays during NFL season or go to $100-a-head art history lectures, she felt duty bound to report on how our little group of friends has been keeping busy. Unfortunately, she probably had one too many brewdogs before she sent off our update:
JerseyGirl '02 is a television news producer in Manhattan. She was recently elected to the New York Smith club board of directors and organizes events and parties for the club. JerseyGirl hangs out with Razzy '00, FalloniusMonk '01, and Rack '01, during monthly 90210 parties and weekly get-togethers that include cooking and watching the awesomeness that is VH1 reality programming...JerseyGirl regularly sees lots of other Smithies in New York City, most of whom were at the wedding of LL Cool Jew '02 in April '07.This rules so hard. While everyone else was out getting married, procreating, or adding more letters behind their name, JerseyGirl announces that we've all been watching Bev Niner and "I Love New York." She seems embarrassed that she actually bragged to the SAQ that we're into "the awesomeness that is VH1 reality programming" instead of the typical boring Smith alumnae crap. I mean, I have gotten two master's degrees since Smith and by next year I'm going to make every motherfucker I meet call me "Doctor," but who cares about that? I'd certainly rather hear about how we loyally watch DVDs of the greatest show in the history of television and teach JerseyGirl how to make grilled cheese sandwiches during commercial breaks in "Flavor of Love 3" and "The Hills." Smith College must be so proud.
Go Pioneers!
Labels: Bev Niner, correspondence, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, I LOVE IT, I Love New York, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Rack, The Hills, Vh1
Monday, January 07, 2008
Recipe for a perfect Saturday
1. Wake up. Note time.
2. Masturbate. Take tonsil meds. Haul sorry ass out of bed.
3. Shower and get ready while watching the Saturday morning lineup of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on SoapNet. Get excited because they are showing the episode where Dylan's dad, disgraced crooked financier Jack McKay AKA Roman from "Days of our Lives", gets blowed up in a car bomb. Of course, it turns out in six years that Jack McKay actually just faked his death to enter the witness protection program, and that sends Dylan spiraling out of control once again into the substance abuse drama that has tormented him throughout his brooding, privileged life, but that's another story. The scene where Jack McKay supposedly explodes is awesome because it features many shots of Luke Perry screaming "DAAAAAAAD!!!!! WHHYYYYYYYYY?!" like Nancy Kerrigan.
4. Walk dogs.
5. Go to JerseyGirl's apartment.
6. Watch three episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210" season three with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, Rack, and FalloniusMonk. Make fun of when Brenda pretends to be French to impress Dean Cain. Get hot and bothered about the sexual tension between Dylan and Kelly. Laugh hysterically when Donna Martin says things like, "Je suis AMERICAN. And if you don't like it, then too bad!" Eat an awesome club sandwich and fries. Consume Heineken.
7. Go to P.D. O'Hurley's, the bar that is practically downstairs from JerseyGirl's apartment, and meet your (Redskins fan) friend MultipleScorgasms for NFC Wild Card playoff football. Wear your new Julian Peterson Seahawks jersey. Look totally hot. Explain that Jamie Moyer is a beloved former Mariners pitcher when his physically enthusiastic raising of the 12th man flag before the game prompted JerseyGirl to ask, "Dude, why is that guy like totally wildin' out?"
8. WATCH AS THE SEAHAWKS LAY WASTE TO THE REDSKINS. Laugh in MultipleScorgasm's face as this occurs. Convince all your Bev Niner friends--who aren't really paying attention to the game--that they should say things like "Go Seahawks!" at opportune moments. Okay, so there were a few tense minutes in the fourth quarter where things weren't looking so great for Seattle, but I knew they could pull it out and they did. How can you beat Seattle? We have the 12th man. And we have our mighty Sea-Fence.
9. Go back to JerseyGirl's apartment to drink more and watch two more episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Let Senioritis convince you to accompany her back to P.D. O'Hurley's to watch the end of the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game, because, like T-Pain, she likes the bartender and apparently did him once, she needs a wingman, and she knows that I am always easily persuaded with the prospect of watching football. She planned to work this into free drinks for us.
10. LAUGH AS THE SHITSBURGH STEALERS LOSE! And drink scotch while chatting up some hot fellas watching the game nearby. They showed a surprising lack of obnoxious jackassery considering they were New England fans. One of them said I looked hot in my NOT PINK Seahawks jersey. Truth. I thanked him and conceded that at least I don't hate the Patriots as much as I hate the Stealers. Then I tapped my bottomless reserve of hatred for anyone wearing yellow and black and went off on one of my predictable tirades about the officiating in Super Bowl XL. I then reveled when the Jags smote the Steelers' ruin upon Heinz Field thanks to key plays like this one where Najeh Davenport gets totally owned by Rashean Mathis:
Then I noted that Jack Del Rio is kind of a hot piece. He really works that challenge flag.
Now that he's lost his typical funeral suit with garish Jags-colored tie, I'd hit that. Usually I like a man in a suit, but Jack Del Rio has bad taste in suits and looks stupid wearing them on the sidelines. I appreciate his effort to class it up, but he just doesn't wear a suit well with his giant Motorola headset. It doesn't work. Also, he has a real problem with wearing these Oakleys that are straight out of 1997, and it's not a good look for him. He needs to wear outfits like this leather jacket number more often. It gives him that kind of rugged, middle-aged bad boy dad look that Steve Mariucci used to rock to great effect back when he was tearing his hair out over Joey Harrington's passer rating in Detroit.
Then I polished off the last of my Johnnie Walker, saluting both Jack's good looks and his team's owning of Pittsburgh (who promptly started complaining about the officials ignoring holding penalties committed by the Jaguars...isn't karma a bitch?), and went home.
Unless somehow you figure out a way to make my tonsil feel 100% back to normal and include R. Kelly showing up in a trenchcoat ready to pull a switcheroo and strip for me with a pepperoni pizza and the director's cut of Total Recall, that is about as close as you get to a perfect Saturday: Seattle wins, Pittsburgh loses, and ample Bev Niner in between. Good times. And watch out, Green Bay...because Seattle's going to be kicking some cheesehead ass this coming weekend! Trust!
2. Masturbate. Take tonsil meds. Haul sorry ass out of bed.
3. Shower and get ready while watching the Saturday morning lineup of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on SoapNet. Get excited because they are showing the episode where Dylan's dad, disgraced crooked financier Jack McKay AKA Roman from "Days of our Lives", gets blowed up in a car bomb. Of course, it turns out in six years that Jack McKay actually just faked his death to enter the witness protection program, and that sends Dylan spiraling out of control once again into the substance abuse drama that has tormented him throughout his brooding, privileged life, but that's another story. The scene where Jack McKay supposedly explodes is awesome because it features many shots of Luke Perry screaming "DAAAAAAAD!!!!! WHHYYYYYYYYY?!" like Nancy Kerrigan.
4. Walk dogs.
5. Go to JerseyGirl's apartment.
6. Watch three episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210" season three with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, Rack, and FalloniusMonk. Make fun of when Brenda pretends to be French to impress Dean Cain. Get hot and bothered about the sexual tension between Dylan and Kelly. Laugh hysterically when Donna Martin says things like, "Je suis AMERICAN. And if you don't like it, then too bad!" Eat an awesome club sandwich and fries. Consume Heineken.
7. Go to P.D. O'Hurley's, the bar that is practically downstairs from JerseyGirl's apartment, and meet your (Redskins fan) friend MultipleScorgasms for NFC Wild Card playoff football. Wear your new Julian Peterson Seahawks jersey. Look totally hot. Explain that Jamie Moyer is a beloved former Mariners pitcher when his physically enthusiastic raising of the 12th man flag before the game prompted JerseyGirl to ask, "Dude, why is that guy like totally wildin' out?"
8. WATCH AS THE SEAHAWKS LAY WASTE TO THE REDSKINS. Laugh in MultipleScorgasm's face as this occurs. Convince all your Bev Niner friends--who aren't really paying attention to the game--that they should say things like "Go Seahawks!" at opportune moments. Okay, so there were a few tense minutes in the fourth quarter where things weren't looking so great for Seattle, but I knew they could pull it out and they did. How can you beat Seattle? We have the 12th man. And we have our mighty Sea-Fence.
9. Go back to JerseyGirl's apartment to drink more and watch two more episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Let Senioritis convince you to accompany her back to P.D. O'Hurley's to watch the end of the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game, because, like T-Pain, she likes the bartender and apparently did him once, she needs a wingman, and she knows that I am always easily persuaded with the prospect of watching football. She planned to work this into free drinks for us.
10. LAUGH AS THE SHITSBURGH STEALERS LOSE! And drink scotch while chatting up some hot fellas watching the game nearby. They showed a surprising lack of obnoxious jackassery considering they were New England fans. One of them said I looked hot in my NOT PINK Seahawks jersey. Truth. I thanked him and conceded that at least I don't hate the Patriots as much as I hate the Stealers. Then I tapped my bottomless reserve of hatred for anyone wearing yellow and black and went off on one of my predictable tirades about the officiating in Super Bowl XL. I then reveled when the Jags smote the Steelers' ruin upon Heinz Field thanks to key plays like this one where Najeh Davenport gets totally owned by Rashean Mathis:
Then I polished off the last of my Johnnie Walker, saluting both Jack's good looks and his team's owning of Pittsburgh (who promptly started complaining about the officials ignoring holding penalties committed by the Jaguars...isn't karma a bitch?), and went home.
Unless somehow you figure out a way to make my tonsil feel 100% back to normal and include R. Kelly showing up in a trenchcoat ready to pull a switcheroo and strip for me with a pepperoni pizza and the director's cut of Total Recall, that is about as close as you get to a perfect Saturday: Seattle wins, Pittsburgh loses, and ample Bev Niner in between. Good times. And watch out, Green Bay...because Seattle's going to be kicking some cheesehead ass this coming weekend! Trust!
Labels: alcoholism, Bev Niner, comeuppance, FalloniusMonk, JerseyGirl, NFL football, Rack, Razzification, Seahawks, Senioritis, Stealers suck
Monday, December 31, 2007
Happy Birthday to Rack!
So it's New Year's Eve, and I'd go off about all my resolutions, except that the only one I'm making is to get my player hater degree and actually get the hell out of grad school. That way I can sign MY name as "Dr. Razzy" and, unlike James McBride, actually be able to back up that title with a degree from an accredited university.
However, while I do plan on going out and getting rip-roaring drunk and hopefully laid, I won't be doing so in honor of 2008. New Year's Eve is always anticlimactic anyway, so it would be better if I had something better and more personal to celebrate. Luckily, I do! It's my good buddy Rack's birthday today, y'all! Thus, instead of celebrating New Year's, I'm celebrating that at this awesome party she is having:
Rack is the hotness, and the only thing I'm sorry about with regards to this party is that I will never be able to come up with a gift as dope as the "My Bitches" figurine she gave me for my 29th. However, I am making my mom's perenially successful artichoke dip and I'll bring some booze, as well as my inimitable party presence, as well as some party mixes of sweet jams (primarily R. Kelly and T-Pain), so hopefully that will make up for my lack of creative skills. Oh, right, and I'm giving her a shoutout on my blog, which should tickle her fancy as she is a dedicated Razzyphile.
Anyway, here's to another year of beach trips, boozing, "Beverly Hills, 90210"-watching, Smith College ex-girlfriend mocking, McAleer's patronizing, football watching, sushi-eating, Harry Potter movie attending, and general debauchery with my girl Rack--or Mac, as is her real-life nickname. Seriously, her real name is "Sarah" and every time she calls I'm like "Sarah...? Oh, RIGHT. It's Mac calling." Happy birthday to you, sugar tits! Tonight I'll be raising a Pepto-Bismol pink champagne flute (full of scotch) to your good health and happy future!
Much love and an emphatic "SKOAL",
XOXO,
Razzy
However, while I do plan on going out and getting rip-roaring drunk and hopefully laid, I won't be doing so in honor of 2008. New Year's Eve is always anticlimactic anyway, so it would be better if I had something better and more personal to celebrate. Luckily, I do! It's my good buddy Rack's birthday today, y'all! Thus, instead of celebrating New Year's, I'm celebrating that at this awesome party she is having:
Anyway, here's to another year of beach trips, boozing, "Beverly Hills, 90210"-watching, Smith College ex-girlfriend mocking, McAleer's patronizing, football watching, sushi-eating, Harry Potter movie attending, and general debauchery with my girl Rack--or Mac, as is her real-life nickname. Seriously, her real name is "Sarah" and every time she calls I'm like "Sarah...? Oh, RIGHT. It's Mac calling." Happy birthday to you, sugar tits! Tonight I'll be raising a Pepto-Bismol pink champagne flute (full of scotch) to your good health and happy future!
Much love and an emphatic "SKOAL",
XOXO,
Razzy
Labels: aging, alcoholism, Rack, Razzyphiles
Monday, November 19, 2007
Rack on!
I got a lot of thoughtful gifts from my friends for my birthday, which was so unnecessary since I would have been satisfied with just having dinner and going drinking with them. Miss Corbutt gave me a lovely cashmere scarf and, appropriately, a new wallet, since I lost my old one that very same night. Neo gave me a bracelet that is covered with Catholic icons of JC and the BV. CorporateCard gave me a set of breast-shaped stress balls. Seriously, they have nipples on them. MultipleScorgasms gave me a certificate of recognition for "Best 29-year-old bod", a kit to play doctor with (unfortunately it's just fake stethoscopes and no sex toys...damn), and a sword which was advertised as being able to render the wielder "hero inapproachable." Sadly, the sword was broken almost immediately and, not having a cadre of elven smiths at my disposal, it could not be reforged like the shards of Narsil. I loved all those presents, but I have to bestow the title of BEST PRESENT EVER on what Rack gave me.
Rack is a fashion designer, and she's always working on creative projects. She always is bedazzling shirts and making elaborate jewelry and making funny things with Illustrator and Photoshop. She's one of the most crafty and creative people I know. Lucky for myself, she turned her ideas and skill with Sculpey modeling clay to the fashioning of my birthday gift. Apparently, I wrote some blog a while back about wanting my own action figure. I actually don't remember that, but Rack is a committed Razzyphile so I believe her. Anyway, she decided to oblige my desire for an action figure and went all out.
ARE YOU KIDDING? Razzy merchandise! Rack pretty much covered all the essentials of Razzy: my d-o-double g's, my sexuality, and my penchant for boozing. Who wouldn't want to collect "Manhattan's favorite dog-owning bisexual alcoholic"? It just keeps getting better:
While Rack encourages people to "collect all 12," the only other ones she made so far are her own and FalloniusMonk's, who unwrapped hers at the same time as I unwrapped mine. Although Rack titled her My Bitches figurine "Mac" which is her real-life nickname, I was thrilled to see that she gave mine and FalloniusMonk's our Razzy names! RAZZY.org, forever the hotness!
And knowing us, Rack had to leave the disclaimer that we couldn't get fucked up by ingesting our likenesses. We're a bunch of substance abusing, kid-hating, irresponsible fuckers, for sure.
Anyway, here's a close-up of the Razzy My Bitches figurine. Pay special note to the fact that, in addition to doing a great job with my "striking Nordic features," Rack managed to capture both of my dogs PERFECTLY. Caesar has the appropriate amount of goofy dog earnestness, and Chingy! is just a collapsing blob of nastiness like he is in real life, right down to the crescent of stank pink tongue that usually pokes out of his weird, repugnant little mouth. And I totally own the exact shirt that Rack fashioned to showcase my "fantastic boobs."
Now I just have to figure out how to convince Rack to mass-produce these, because you know you all want one! I need her to make me a new "Sugar Hill, NYC" street sign too since unfortunately that aspect of my My Bitches figurine somehow vanished during the course of the party. Good times. I'm still hung over from this weekend's festivities, but looking at my sweet My Bitches figurine is taking the edge off. SO AWESOME!
Rack is a fashion designer, and she's always working on creative projects. She always is bedazzling shirts and making elaborate jewelry and making funny things with Illustrator and Photoshop. She's one of the most crafty and creative people I know. Lucky for myself, she turned her ideas and skill with Sculpey modeling clay to the fashioning of my birthday gift. Apparently, I wrote some blog a while back about wanting my own action figure. I actually don't remember that, but Rack is a committed Razzyphile so I believe her. Anyway, she decided to oblige my desire for an action figure and went all out.
While Rack encourages people to "collect all 12," the only other ones she made so far are her own and FalloniusMonk's, who unwrapped hers at the same time as I unwrapped mine. Although Rack titled her My Bitches figurine "Mac" which is her real-life nickname, I was thrilled to see that she gave mine and FalloniusMonk's our Razzy names! RAZZY.org, forever the hotness!
And knowing us, Rack had to leave the disclaimer that we couldn't get fucked up by ingesting our likenesses. We're a bunch of substance abusing, kid-hating, irresponsible fuckers, for sure.
Anyway, here's a close-up of the Razzy My Bitches figurine. Pay special note to the fact that, in addition to doing a great job with my "striking Nordic features," Rack managed to capture both of my dogs PERFECTLY. Caesar has the appropriate amount of goofy dog earnestness, and Chingy! is just a collapsing blob of nastiness like he is in real life, right down to the crescent of stank pink tongue that usually pokes out of his weird, repugnant little mouth. And I totally own the exact shirt that Rack fashioned to showcase my "fantastic boobs."
Labels: creative projects, I LOVE IT, Rack, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Monday, October 29, 2007
It's Razzy, bitch!
So hot off the press is the first glimpse of this year's Halloween costume and its execution for the annual grad student party I attend every year:
My Britney look went pretty well considering I did it all at the very last minute. I went out for brunch Saturday morning with LL Cool Jew and BigBagel, Rack and TheOldGuy, Fallonius Monk, JerseyGirl and Kodiak, and J-Sexy. Then I went over to hang out at LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's hotel for a moment, but that was thwarted when LL Cool Jew became violently ill from drinking one too many Campari-and-sodas the night before with yours truly. I was pretty hung over myself from drinking from 5 pm, throughout the Morrissey concert, after the Morrissey show with Miss Corbutt and her boyfriend, and then after that with LL Cool Jew at two different bars. I got to bed at 4 in the morning and had to get up again at 10.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
I may have gotten the costume at the last minute, but I didn't work out for a full month to achieve this perfect Britney body. No sit-ups, no Gauntlet, not even so much as a single, short, mile-long trot around the park, just so I could have the perfect quantity of love handle to spill over the waistband of my $3.50 Rainbow boy shorts. That's dedication. I've successfully trashy-slutted up another Halloween party, and I knew this to be true when Captain Jack Sparrow stumbled up to me and informed me that I was "the most beautiful woman in the history of the world" right before he locked himself into the bathroom to regurgitate the bottle of Captain Morgan's he'd unwisely chugged in a little over an hour. Halloween: mission accomplished.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
Labels: Britney Spears, FalloniusMonk, fat fucks, Halloween, Harlem world, J-Sexy, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, nudity, NYC, Rack, Razzification, sluts, vanity
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Super, SUPER Saturday
I woke up early this morning like a little kid on Christmas, because today something supremely awesome is going down: I'm getting together with my bitches to drink beer, blow on some trees, eat pizza, and watch "Beverly Hills, 90210" (AKA "Nine-o" AKA "Bev Niner" AKA the BEST SHOW in the entire HISTORY of television) season 2 DVDs!!!!!!!!!--wait, I need more exclamation points to truly convey my feelings about this--!!!!!!!!!!!!!
We already had a Bev Niner day when the season 2 DVDs dropped in May, but decided we could not wait until December 11th when season 3 (containing the infamous "Donna Martin graduates!" episode and multiple instances where David Silver overcomes racial tensions by rapping) is released. When we did this in May, I woke up at the ass crack of dawn and started calling my fellow Bev Niner aficionados and the calls all went something like this:
Rack: 'Sup, Raz?
Razzy: What it do? Did I wake you up?
Rack: Nah, man, I'm at a pub.
Razzy: A pub at 10 a.m. Nice. Are you watching soccer or something?
(Rack loves foreigners--such as her current British boyfriend OldGuy--so she keeps abreast of decidedly un-American sports like soccer).
Rack: It's FOOTBALL, Raz.
Razzy: Soccer.
Rack: Football.
Razzy: Soccer.
Rack: Anyway, this could go on all day. BT-dubs, there's a hobbit here.
Razzy: A what?
Rack: A HOBBIT, dude. Like from your favorite movies.
Razzy: Really? Which one?
Rack: Pippin, maybe? I don't know...the one that's on "Lost" now.
Razzy: Oh, that's Merry. Go take a picture with him, I'll put it on my blog.
Rack: I'll try, it's pretty packed in here. Anyway, what time are you going to JerseyGirl's?
Razzy: A-fucking-SAP. Dude, I'm so excited.
Rack: Me too!
Razzy: Dude, I watched disc 4 the other night, and I just about had an orgasm it was so fucking hot.
Rack: Dude, I'm totally excited.
Razzy: Okay, JerseyGirl's on the other line, I'll see you around 12:30. Try to get a picture with Merry Brandybuck.
Rack: I'll do my best. Bye.
(I click over to the other line.)
Razzy: DUDE! ARE YOU FUCKING EXCITED?!
JerseyGirl: DUDE! Oh my God, YES!
Razzy: I couldn't resist, I had to watch some the other night, and can I just tell you how fucking rad this is?
JerseyGirl: We HAVE to start with the episode where Emily Valentine slips U4EA into Brandon's drink at the underground club.
Razzy: Well, that's episode 3 on disc 4, but I have to tell you, the whole thing is the money DVD of the entire collection. Episode 1 on that is "Halloween," where Kelly gets dumped and goes to this party as the sluttiest witch in the history of Halloween costumes.
JerseyGirl: Uh huh...
Razzy: And then Brenda and everyone else are all, "Don't you think you're asking for trouble?" and Kelly's like, "Loosen up! If I can handle my mom's epic coke-and-booze binges at the mother-daughter fashion show, I can handle this outfit."
JerseyGirl: And then she almost gets date raped again, right?
Razzy: Totally...by this USC frat boy dressed as a Wild West gunslinger, who never gets out of character even when he's trying to force himself on her. He's all, "Well, that there dress don't look like you're sayin' no to me, lil' darlin'." It's some quality acting.
JerseyGirl: And Steve Sanders beats his ass for calling Kelly a slut! God, I love Steve.
Razzy: YES! And I so concur. Anyway, then in the NEXT episode Scott shoots himself in front of David Silver, and then is the infamous U4EA episode, and then Emily Valentine goes crazy and steals Brandon's vintage "Walsh '87" Minnesota Twins World Series jersey and tries to burn down the homecoming float while Brenda and Dylan practically fuck in the audience at the symphony.
JerseyGirl: What episode is the one where Jim Walsh catches Dylan and Brenda making out in the shower at the Beverly Hills Beach Club?
Razzy: I think that's before...disc 1 is the "summer season". God, Jim Walsh is the worst father ever. He had such egregious double standards for Brandon and Brenda.
JerseyGirl: I fucking HATE Jim Walsh. He was so unfair. Holy shit. I'm SO excited. Get your ass over here at 12:30 sharp.
Razzy: Oh, fa sho! I'll be there with the DVDs and a sixer of Heine.
JerseyGirl: Awesome.
Rack, JerseyGirl, and JerseyGirl's friend Senioritis feel me so hard on the Bev Niner tip. We keep talking about making a video for my blog called "Mystery Science Theater 90210", where we'll just tape ourselves watching Niner and commenting on it. This may actually happen today now that I figured out how to use my MacBook's webcam. Our knowledge of this show is so fucking encyclopedic we should all get honorary doctorates in it, and between the four of us, we may have seen every episode from all ten seasons at least five times each. JerseyGirl and I send each other texts all the time that are like, "Dylan, you're scaring me!" and "Dammit, Dylan, if you're going to drink then get the hell out of my house!", and assorted other quotes derived from the tempestuous whirlwind of passion otherwise known as the coupling of Brenda Walsh and Dylan McKay.
We are so into this that we had to schedule another day--today--to rewatch the season 2's greatest hits because season 2 is just so hot. Bev Niner really came into its own during season 2. David Silver started becoming cool (aided by his geeky childhood best friend Scott's convenient accidental demise by self-inflicted gunshot wound, and his father the oral surgeon's affair with Kelly's now-sober ex-Farley Girl mom Jackie) and begins his disc jockeying career spinning for the West Beverly PA system, Kelly hones her chops as Beverly Hills' resident snotty rich cunt, Donna discovers her mother's terrible secret while stalking Color Me Badd at the Bel Age Hotel, Steve confronts his adoption issues, Brandon engages in the ill-fated torrid affair with the verifiably insane Emily Valentine, Brenda ups her typical volatile and unreasonable bitchiness to a whole new level, Andrea Zuckerman becomes even more annoying and self-righteous as she tackles heavy issues like the Holocaust, gun control, and AIDS, and Dylan copes with his abandonment issues by falling off the wagon, surfing, porking Brenda, having increasingly frequent fits of rage, and wearing very ill-advised sleeveless Baja jackets:
In fairness, it's hard to make fun of Dylan's early-90s SoCal surfer clothes or those super dated Vuarnet shades he's rocking when Steve Sanders is showcasing his muscle definition by posing like a ballerina with a pair of O.P. short-shorts and a surfboard. And that's nothing compared to the fashions the ladies are sporting:
Love the fucking ruffled peasant blouse that Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman's trying to youth it up with in this picture. It's too bad it doesn't change the fact that she looks like a 36-year-old mother of two who drives a minivan instead of a socially challenged yet earnest and perky 17-year-old editor of the West Beverly Blaze. She doesn't get to sex it up like Kelly and Donna, with their underwire Laura Ashley floral pattern bikinis.
If you don't decide to spend the rest of the day watching "Beverly Hills, 90210" (which by now you have undoubtedly decided to purchase and place in a place of honor, like right by your Bible or dictionary or integrals table or copy of The Sun Also Rises or whatever you consider an absolute essential), then you have really, really fucked priorities. I'm watching this morning's Niner reruns on SoapNet to prefunk. Bev Niner FOREVER!
We already had a Bev Niner day when the season 2 DVDs dropped in May, but decided we could not wait until December 11th when season 3 (containing the infamous "Donna Martin graduates!" episode and multiple instances where David Silver overcomes racial tensions by rapping) is released. When we did this in May, I woke up at the ass crack of dawn and started calling my fellow Bev Niner aficionados and the calls all went something like this:
Rack: 'Sup, Raz?
Razzy: What it do? Did I wake you up?
Rack: Nah, man, I'm at a pub.
Razzy: A pub at 10 a.m. Nice. Are you watching soccer or something?
(Rack loves foreigners--such as her current British boyfriend OldGuy--so she keeps abreast of decidedly un-American sports like soccer).
Rack: It's FOOTBALL, Raz.
Razzy: Soccer.
Rack: Football.
Razzy: Soccer.
Rack: Anyway, this could go on all day. BT-dubs, there's a hobbit here.
Razzy: A what?
Rack: A HOBBIT, dude. Like from your favorite movies.
Razzy: Really? Which one?
Rack: Pippin, maybe? I don't know...the one that's on "Lost" now.
Razzy: Oh, that's Merry. Go take a picture with him, I'll put it on my blog.
Rack: I'll try, it's pretty packed in here. Anyway, what time are you going to JerseyGirl's?
Razzy: A-fucking-SAP. Dude, I'm so excited.
Rack: Me too!
Razzy: Dude, I watched disc 4 the other night, and I just about had an orgasm it was so fucking hot.
Rack: Dude, I'm totally excited.
Razzy: Okay, JerseyGirl's on the other line, I'll see you around 12:30. Try to get a picture with Merry Brandybuck.
Rack: I'll do my best. Bye.
(I click over to the other line.)
Razzy: DUDE! ARE YOU FUCKING EXCITED?!
JerseyGirl: DUDE! Oh my God, YES!
Razzy: I couldn't resist, I had to watch some the other night, and can I just tell you how fucking rad this is?
JerseyGirl: We HAVE to start with the episode where Emily Valentine slips U4EA into Brandon's drink at the underground club.
Razzy: Well, that's episode 3 on disc 4, but I have to tell you, the whole thing is the money DVD of the entire collection. Episode 1 on that is "Halloween," where Kelly gets dumped and goes to this party as the sluttiest witch in the history of Halloween costumes.
JerseyGirl: Uh huh...
Razzy: And then Brenda and everyone else are all, "Don't you think you're asking for trouble?" and Kelly's like, "Loosen up! If I can handle my mom's epic coke-and-booze binges at the mother-daughter fashion show, I can handle this outfit."
JerseyGirl: And then she almost gets date raped again, right?
Razzy: Totally...by this USC frat boy dressed as a Wild West gunslinger, who never gets out of character even when he's trying to force himself on her. He's all, "Well, that there dress don't look like you're sayin' no to me, lil' darlin'." It's some quality acting.
JerseyGirl: And Steve Sanders beats his ass for calling Kelly a slut! God, I love Steve.
Razzy: YES! And I so concur. Anyway, then in the NEXT episode Scott shoots himself in front of David Silver, and then is the infamous U4EA episode, and then Emily Valentine goes crazy and steals Brandon's vintage "Walsh '87" Minnesota Twins World Series jersey and tries to burn down the homecoming float while Brenda and Dylan practically fuck in the audience at the symphony.
JerseyGirl: What episode is the one where Jim Walsh catches Dylan and Brenda making out in the shower at the Beverly Hills Beach Club?
Razzy: I think that's before...disc 1 is the "summer season". God, Jim Walsh is the worst father ever. He had such egregious double standards for Brandon and Brenda.
JerseyGirl: I fucking HATE Jim Walsh. He was so unfair. Holy shit. I'm SO excited. Get your ass over here at 12:30 sharp.
Razzy: Oh, fa sho! I'll be there with the DVDs and a sixer of Heine.
JerseyGirl: Awesome.
Rack, JerseyGirl, and JerseyGirl's friend Senioritis feel me so hard on the Bev Niner tip. We keep talking about making a video for my blog called "Mystery Science Theater 90210", where we'll just tape ourselves watching Niner and commenting on it. This may actually happen today now that I figured out how to use my MacBook's webcam. Our knowledge of this show is so fucking encyclopedic we should all get honorary doctorates in it, and between the four of us, we may have seen every episode from all ten seasons at least five times each. JerseyGirl and I send each other texts all the time that are like, "Dylan, you're scaring me!" and "Dammit, Dylan, if you're going to drink then get the hell out of my house!", and assorted other quotes derived from the tempestuous whirlwind of passion otherwise known as the coupling of Brenda Walsh and Dylan McKay.
We are so into this that we had to schedule another day--today--to rewatch the season 2's greatest hits because season 2 is just so hot. Bev Niner really came into its own during season 2. David Silver started becoming cool (aided by his geeky childhood best friend Scott's convenient accidental demise by self-inflicted gunshot wound, and his father the oral surgeon's affair with Kelly's now-sober ex-Farley Girl mom Jackie) and begins his disc jockeying career spinning for the West Beverly PA system, Kelly hones her chops as Beverly Hills' resident snotty rich cunt, Donna discovers her mother's terrible secret while stalking Color Me Badd at the Bel Age Hotel, Steve confronts his adoption issues, Brandon engages in the ill-fated torrid affair with the verifiably insane Emily Valentine, Brenda ups her typical volatile and unreasonable bitchiness to a whole new level, Andrea Zuckerman becomes even more annoying and self-righteous as she tackles heavy issues like the Holocaust, gun control, and AIDS, and Dylan copes with his abandonment issues by falling off the wagon, surfing, porking Brenda, having increasingly frequent fits of rage, and wearing very ill-advised sleeveless Baja jackets:
In fairness, it's hard to make fun of Dylan's early-90s SoCal surfer clothes or those super dated Vuarnet shades he's rocking when Steve Sanders is showcasing his muscle definition by posing like a ballerina with a pair of O.P. short-shorts and a surfboard. And that's nothing compared to the fashions the ladies are sporting:
Love the fucking ruffled peasant blouse that Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman's trying to youth it up with in this picture. It's too bad it doesn't change the fact that she looks like a 36-year-old mother of two who drives a minivan instead of a socially challenged yet earnest and perky 17-year-old editor of the West Beverly Blaze. She doesn't get to sex it up like Kelly and Donna, with their underwire Laura Ashley floral pattern bikinis.
If you don't decide to spend the rest of the day watching "Beverly Hills, 90210" (which by now you have undoubtedly decided to purchase and place in a place of honor, like right by your Bible or dictionary or integrals table or copy of The Sun Also Rises or whatever you consider an absolute essential), then you have really, really fucked priorities. I'm watching this morning's Niner reruns on SoapNet to prefunk. Bev Niner FOREVER!
Labels: Bev Niner, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, Rack, Razzification
Monday, September 10, 2007
Thank you, HotLawyer
My buddy and loyal Razzyphile HotLawyer sent me a spontaneous gift last week, which was very nice of him. He and I send each other unexpected surprises every so often. I once sent him some nerdy historical books about seamen, and this past week he sent a shirt which would allow me to "rep the 253" here in the 212. He requested that I wear it out and about in NYC, and take some pictures of me doing so. Unfortunately, the shirt was too big (I swear that it was only "medium" if Lane Bryant was doing the sizing), and I hate wearing ill-fitting, baggy t-shirts that hide my tits and make me look like a fat box.
Luckily, my friend Rack is a fashion designer, so when I went out for beers with her, I brought the shirt along hoping that she could remedy the situation. We got some scissors from the bar waitstaff, and Rack fixed it up for me commendably. It's now SUPER PWT, and although the shirt lauds Tacoma, it really gave it that extra dash of Puyallup that makes it right for me. She was then kind enough to take pictures of her handiwork, so that I could show my appreciation for HotLawyer by doing as he requested and taking pictures of me running around the city reppin' the 253. I didn't go to any famous NYC spots, like Times Square or somehwhere with a view of the Statue of Liberty, or Central Park, but in my opinion, the outdoor seating area of McAleer's Pub on 81st and Amsterdam is an unsung gem of Mannahattas. It should be in the Fodor's guide, because you can do all sorts of classy stuff there in an "I Hella Heart Tacoma" t-shirt. Like stand around drinking beer (important, because Tacoma is where my alcoholism really came into its own, so booze is absolutely necessary for effective representing) gazing vaguely at the camera like I might be retarded:
Or switch up my style to really go for that extra, I've-teased-out-my-half-grown-out-perm for a Tonya Harding level of trashtasticness. Hey, everyone, look at my desperately-in-need-of-some-Feria dark roots!
Or eat chicken wings and jalapeno poppers suggestively:
Thank you, HotLawyer (and Rack, for the alterations...you are the Diane Von Furstenburg of trailer park casual chic). I will always rep the 253 with pride. City of Destiny, bitches!
Luckily, my friend Rack is a fashion designer, so when I went out for beers with her, I brought the shirt along hoping that she could remedy the situation. We got some scissors from the bar waitstaff, and Rack fixed it up for me commendably. It's now SUPER PWT, and although the shirt lauds Tacoma, it really gave it that extra dash of Puyallup that makes it right for me. She was then kind enough to take pictures of her handiwork, so that I could show my appreciation for HotLawyer by doing as he requested and taking pictures of me running around the city reppin' the 253. I didn't go to any famous NYC spots, like Times Square or somehwhere with a view of the Statue of Liberty, or Central Park, but in my opinion, the outdoor seating area of McAleer's Pub on 81st and Amsterdam is an unsung gem of Mannahattas. It should be in the Fodor's guide, because you can do all sorts of classy stuff there in an "I Hella Heart Tacoma" t-shirt. Like stand around drinking beer (important, because Tacoma is where my alcoholism really came into its own, so booze is absolutely necessary for effective representing) gazing vaguely at the camera like I might be retarded:
Or switch up my style to really go for that extra, I've-teased-out-my-half-grown-out-perm for a Tonya Harding level of trashtasticness. Hey, everyone, look at my desperately-in-need-of-some-Feria dark roots!
Or eat chicken wings and jalapeno poppers suggestively:
Labels: alcoholism, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, NYC, P-N-Dub, PWT, Rack, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
To revadge or not to revadge?
Last week, BigBagel, who is obviously VERY busy covering health issues on the Gulf Coast of the mighty Mississip in his waning days as a newspaper reporter, sent out the following query to LL Cool Jew and some of her friends:
In case you didn't read the above article, it's all about how vaginoplasty (cosmetic reconstruction of the vadge and/or surrounding lady bits) has come into vogue either to improve one's genital appearance or to make a new fake hymen for crazy Christian bitches who want to physically repent for their old, sluttish ways. The article explores concerns among surgeons about vaginoplasty being an unnecessary and potentially dangerous procedure. LL Cool Jew was mortified that BigBagel had decided this was a move sanctioned by the very beautiful and sweet marriage vows they exchanged back in April:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Rack (rack@fashiondesignhouse.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org), Jersey Girl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), MillerTime (mtime@tacomahmo.com), Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com), HotLawyer (hotlawyer@criminaldefenselawfirm.com), Morrissey'sHair (morrisseyshair@bankruptcylawfirm.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: being that i am now a married man...
ah, the funny things I come across as a health journalist. anyway, I feel a little more comfortable asking about this now that I am a married man, well, really since I now have access to a network of female friends.
http://www.reuters.com/article/healthNews/idUSN3125637420070831
this is a totally unscientific survey entirely for non-professional curiosity reasons. this is also an attempt to deal with my senioritis issues at work, even though I have a fuckload to do right now. Anyway, what do y'all think of the vaginoplasty procedure? Would you consider it for yourself? If so, under what cirucmstances? Cosmetic ever be a consideration? Performance-based reasons? "revirgination"? I can tell you from my perspective, no goddamn way i'd let anyone get a knife near my johnson unless it was somehow the only way to prevent it from falling off.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI then felt the need to respond, not because I was shocked BigBagel decided to solicit this informal poll, but because this topic has interested me ever since I saw some old bitch get vaginoplasty on an episode of "Nip/Tuck" a couple seasons back and since I heard the rumors on the internet about the horrors that befell Jenna Jameson when she underwent this procedure:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org)
zomg, i cannot *believe* my husband just sent a vaginoplasty article to all my friends...it was an unsanctioned move, fyi, and btw bigbagel, hotlawyer and morrissey'shair are men...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI felt that pretty much covered it, and so did FalloniusMonk, albeit for apparently different reasons. I'm assuming she was referring to point #5 about fucking dudes with penis piercings, since she's a big ol' lesbo.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
NO FUCKING WAY.
1. My vagina is a goddamn work of art, and it has many admirers who agree with me (including certain unnamed parties on this e-mail list).
2. Because of this procedure, Jenna Jameson's vagina looks like Petra after the hot Nazi stupidly brought the Grail over the Seal at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. In fairness, I haven't seen her post-surgical modifications, but if the work she's had done on the rest of her is any indication of her surgeon's skill, I sincerely doubt its appearance has been improved.
3. I don't know why any woman would consider this unless her cooch looks like the Mines of Moria. If your vadge is too loose, there's this little exercise called a Kegel that EVERY woman should know about and do on the regs, and that can fix it up.
4. As to the notion that I might have unattractive external or internal genitalia...SHA RIGHT. Like I said, my shit looks like a freakin' Georgia O'Keefe lily. Except better.
5. After a particularly memorable (in a most unpleasant way) one-night stand with a dreadlocked retard who had eleven penis piercings and experienced the extremely painful process of healing from a vaginal shredding, including walking bow-legged (and not in the good way promised to strippers by R. Kelly in "R&B Thug"), I have decided not to let anything sharp and metal near my twat ever again. That dude also gave me a visible hickey and a urinary tract infection...bastard.
You might also be interested to know that there is also a type of collagen injection called "The G Shot" that, per its website (www.thegshot.com), "can temporarily augment the Grafenburg spot in sexually active women with normal sexual function." MAYBE I would consider something like that because I'm down for more intense orgasms and it's just a little shot...except in this case, the lengthy list of risks (http://thegshot.com/risks.htm ) including "vesico-vaginal fistula (hole between the bladder and vagina)," "erosion," "exposed material," and "local tissue infarction and necrosis," mitigates the reward. NO THANKS! I'll stick to my regular old orgasms and leave my lady parts unsullied by medical intervention.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listMotherbucker, likewise a big ol' lesbo, decided to take a more snarky approach in her response:
From: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com)
They should call it Revagination.
I leave the eloquence to Dr. Raz. For wildly different reasons, BigBagel, I concur with her - and you, for that matter: hell motherfucking no.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listJerseyGirl, as all of our friends would have predicted, responded with a typical "ew, gross!" sentiment. JerseyGirl once almost threw up when I was discussing some of the messier aspects of anal sex, so this topic didn't suit her rather squeamish temperament.
From: Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com)
I would definitely get it. I want my twat to remain forever tight for all the hot dick I regularly get involved with...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listSo far, with the exception of Motherbucker who was being 100% sarcastic, nobody has taken a pro-vaginoplasty stance. However, to relieve BigBagel's insatiable curiosity about the wild world of revagination, I thought I'd bring the debate to the internets. If anyone has an opinion about whether they'd personally would or would not get vaginoplasty or why they would or would not encourage their bitch to get a Twat 2.0, spend those two cents on the comment page, y'all! Maybe BigBagel can write another Pulitzer-worthy investigative report on it. Also, I'm still waiting to hear from HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair about what they think as far as their vaginas are concerned.
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com)
That is gross. No.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, HotLawyer, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Motherbucker, oh the horror, plastic surgery, Rack, science, sex, stank vaginas
Friday, July 13, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ian Ziering Steve Sanders
DOB: March 30, 1964
Occupation: Actor, celebrity dancer, possible game show host, Corvette aficionado, the original adopted celebrity baby, president of the KEG house, managing editor of the Beverly Beat, class clown, sagacious wise man
Hometown: West Orange, New Jersey
Current Residence: He'll live forever in Beverly Hills, 90210!
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: It's no secret that my favorite TV show of all time is the venerable and incomparable prime-time masterpiece of Aaron Spelling awesomeness known as "Beverly Hills, 90210", or as I call it, Bev Niner.
Of all the men on Bev Niner, Steve Sanders was always my favorite. Dylan was so tormented and spent entirely too much time alternately crying about his poor little rich boy situation and throwing bratty tantrums culminating in smashing potted plants outside the Bel Age Hotel. This juvenile bullshit couldn't even mitigate his occasional hotness, like when he'd go on a bender and hustle drug dealers at pool in the underground billiards club, or when he'd be(in the words of my friend JerseyGirl) "catchin' a badass wave." Brandon, meanwhile was such an insufferably self-righteous, hypocritical asshole that every time he'd make an appearance in his impeccably ironed Peach Pit uniform with heavily lacquered hair and a pencil tucked wholesomely behind his ear I'd want to turn off the TV. In addition to being the world's worst goody two shoes, he was hanging out with the heinously clothed and styled Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, and together they were constantly annoying everyone in earshot with a neverending buffet of extraordinarily patronizing activism, obnoxious unsolicited moralizing, and completely not-funny jokes about whatever the hell heavy-handed story about racism, alcoholism, anti-semitism, classism, or Donna's graduation prospects they were writing for the West Beverly Blaze that week. And don't get me started on David Silver. He went from ridiculous puffy sleeved epileptic seizure-inducing shirt-wearing dweeb to an overcompensating proto-Justin Timberlake. No...Steve Sanders was THE MAN.
He was hilarious, and always had a witty quip ready in spite of his reputation as a dumbass. Even when bad shit happened (finding out he was adopted, dumped hard by Kelly Taylor, being used for his money by cheap whores he picked up at the Peach Pit, having his Vette stolen by two hot chicks he stupidly lent the keys to, almost getting kicked out of West Bev for a legacy key-related scandal, almost getting kicked out of California University for a graduation prank scandal, getting to second base with a tranny in Palm Springs, getting wrongfully accused of rape by a vengeful scorned ex-girlfriend, being cuckolded by the deliciously evil Valerie Malone, knocking up his secretary), he'd grin and laugh it off. Steve was also a wise fool. He'd always give people such good advice (Donna don't be stupid, Kelly get your mother to rehab, Brandon dump Emily Valentine, Dylan learn some coping skills, Andrea quit dressing like a soccer mom, David quit hanging out with dorks like that kid who shot himself, Brenda shut up), and he was a fiercely loyal friend. At the Halloween party where Kelly almost gets date raped by a cowboy frat boy (who never gets out of cowboy character even as he's forcing a screaming Kelly onto the bed...he's like "well, shucks,that dress don't look like you're sayin' no to me, lil' darlin'"), Steve drags the motherfucker outside and punches him in the face when he says Kelly was asking for it by dressing like a slut. He knocks his rapist ass out, too! He also takes the blame for academic fraud and political scandal on MORE than one occasion to save Brandon's precious reputation, and prevents the sleazy John Sears from statutory raping a thirteen-year-old runaway in spite of almost getting booted from the KEG house for it. Steve was a man of impeccable character and moral fortitude, and I don't care if Dylan was hotter or whatever. Steve Sanders is the kind of guy I could marry. Or at least fuck more than once.
I know Ian Ziering is actually not synonymous with Steve Sanders, but I'll always think of him that way. That's why yesterday I got super excited when my friend Rack e-mailed to advise me that he's on the short list of dudes to replace Bob Barker on "The Price is Right!" Seriously, if that happens, I'm totally going to California to sit in the audience, pray that I'm invited to "come on down," and have my acumen concerning the retail price of things like Uncle Ben's instant rice, Kia Sportages, and ugly bedroom sets challenged. I'll be all, "I'm going to bid $15,001 on that showcase, Steve! I mean Ian!" while flashing him my best bedroom eyes.
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, JerseyGirl, Rack, television
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Razzy's weekly melanoma risk factor increase: Coney Island
I have been making an effort to go to the beach every single weekend, because there's nothing more fun than lounging around in the sun with friends, covertly drinking many beers, and swimming around with the energy and enthusiasm of a Chinook salmon returning to its spawning grounds. I was planning on going with J-Sexy and a group of people to Cherry Grove, AKA the gay Hamptons, on Fire Island, but then the group bailed and J-Sexy decided to work. Unfortunately, I thus do not have any good stories about cruising the nudey beach for hot lesbos, but hopefully that will happen in the next couple of weekends.
Instead, JerseyGirl's boyfriend had some sort of mini-triathlon to compete in at Coney Island, so she suggested I head down there. I was supposed to go to Coney with them a couple weeks ago for the annual mermaid parade, but the night before I drank an estimated twenty beers, and that's not exaggerating. I wound up taking home this Irish postdoc who spent most of the time processing about his duplicitous ex-girlfriend. I tried to get things moving in a naked-and-fucking direction by saying something along the lines of, "Cut the chit-chat, I'm ready to be flat on my bizack, dude." He then informed me that he couldn't fuck me because it's his policy to take women on a date first. I was like, "So let me get this straight: even though your clit-tease ass agreed to come home with me, and I'm currently sitting on your lap topless making out with you, you can't go the distance until you pony up for dinner and a fucking movie?" He responded that then we would go at it like rabbits. I snorted at him contemptuously and told him that his non-putting-out ass better go home and plan this fabulous date. He texted me later and I ignored it. Anyway, because of the heavy drinking occurring in concert with this aborted attempt to get laid, I was a wreck the next day and couldn't stop dry-heaving long enough to haul my sorry self to the D train and thus flaked on the mermaid parade. If that's not the epitome of sexy then I don't know what is.
So to make up for my failure to appear the last time JerseyGirl and Rack and their male companions went to Coney, I agreed to go this time. I was a little suspicious of what the beach would be like, because Brooklyn and Queens beaches are notorious for being stank and dirty. Rack and FalloniusMonk went to Far Rockaway in Queens a few years ago and there were syringes and diapers floating in the water. However, JerseyGirl assured me that Coney Island was fabulous and sparklingly clean. That just goes to show you should never trust beach and water quality assessments from a girl who grew up on the Jersey shore.
I was trying to figure out how to get there, when I remembered something I see every day but never paid much heed to:
The D train goes right to Coney Island, and it's an express train! The Dizzle is also one of the trains I can get at my neighborhood subway station. Score! I bikini-d up, grabbed my books, towels, sunscreen, and cooler, and hit the train. I thought it would be really nice to take the subway, and I thought it would be quick since the D runs express.
Stupidly, I forgot about how miserably huge Brooklyn is. An hour later, when the conductor decided that, for whatever reason, the train I was on wasn't going all the way to Coney after all and I would have to transfer at some station way the hell out in buttfuck Brooklyn. Along with all the rest of the disgruntled passengers, I traipsed off to wait for the next train, which seemed to crawl along at a snail's pace until we finally pulled into the Stillwell Avenue station at Coney. I bought beer and ice for the cooler, then traipsed down the boardwalk looking for JerseyGirl.
I first noticed as I walked across the beach to join them that Coney Island is nothing like the other beaches I've been to on Long Island. The sand is so dirty that I swear it actually hurt my feet to walk over it. It reminded me of a gigantic version of one of those sand-filled ashtrays they used to have in malls and hotels back in the day where you could smoke there. However, after consuming a sixer of Modelo Especial, I was enjoying myself. Kodiak went on a run to Nathan's for hot dogs, and we were having a grand time in spite of the beach's nastiness, laughing at JerseyGirl's attempts to get me to go see a Bon Jovi concert in Newark with her, our shared hatred of people with atrocious spelling and grammar, and my extremely dim prospects of getting laid with any of the fellow beachgoers. Then JerseyGirl informed me that Rack and TheOldGuy were on their way.
"Can you ladies stop calling him 'the old guy' and 'the Brit' for a second? What's his actual name? I've hung out with him like ten times and I realized I don't even know his name," said Kodiak.
"Well, his last name is Bates," I said. "So you can call him 'Master Bates' like I do, and that is his real name. I expect they call people 'Master' instead of 'Mister' in England anyway."
TheOldGuy has a very good sense of humor about all the fun we have at his expense, and to demonstrate that, he showed up with another half-rack of beers to replenish the cooler. We were having a good time, except for the decided lack of hot dudes and/or hot girls available for me to pick up. Most of the people enjoying the sun and surf of Coney looked like this:
Normally I'd apologize for the poor picture quality resulting from my subpar skills as a photographer and my piece of shit camera, but in this case, consider the internets fortunate that I didn't get this heifer's cellulite in all its dimpled glory. We spent the afternoon playing "spot the grotesquely fat person" and getting ever more drunk. We even did some swimming, until late in the afternoon Rack spotted a tampon applicator floating in the water. "Where there's an applicator, there's a dirty tampon. I'm not going back in," I declared. Rack agreed that sighting biohazardous medical waste was indeed the cue that our swimming fun had come to an end, and we should head back to Mannahattas for some whiskey-sodas and fried bar food. By the end of the day, we all had separate takes on Coney:
JerseyGirl: "Okay, seriously, you guys, this place is so romantic! It's just like the Jersey shore! I totally wish we could break out a Slippery When Wet CD...that would make it perfect!"
Rack: "What do y'all think that fuckin' giant red thing is for? This place is a fuckin' dump, y'all."
Razzy: "One finger is for the stank nastiness of this beach and the other is for making me come all the way out to Brooklyn for it! And if I had a third finger to flip off the camera with, it would be for the fact that the only weiner I've gotten here is two Nathan's famouses! But I'm drunk so I'm having fun anyway."
Ahh, Coney Island.
It wouldn't be a regular trip to the beach for me, though, if I didn't get a stupid, bizarre-looking sunburn. I've been trying to go with the marshmallow-roasting strategy of tanning this year. Much like a marshmallow, you can either slow-cook me to a nice golden brown over low heat, or just stick my ass into the flames and burn my ass to a blackened crisp. I've been applying lots of SPF 45 and trying to take the slow-cooking path. However, as is typical, I missed a couple of spots. So far, my ass and face have both suffered really stupid-looking sunburns, and this time, my back bore the brunt of uneven sunscreen application:
It looks like one of those dumb angel wing tattoos that stupid bitches like to get. I expect that every unwashed, dreadlock-sporting lesbo folk singer on the Lilith Fair second stage had this type of faux-religious dumb bitch body art inked on their backs, often made exponentially more stupid with some type of Buddhinduyoga (generic goddesses, random Sanskrit) or girlie-girl (butterflies, flowers, metaphorical vagina) imagery.
Since I don't have any tattoos, nor do I plan on getting any, I am most unhappy with the placement of this sunburn. I don't want to look like one of these dumb bitches. If anyone asks me where my bongo drums are because of this, that unfortunate individual is getting smacked the fuck up. Every beach I've visited so far has left its mark on me in the form of UV irradiation. At Fire Island's sunken forest, it was my face. At Long Beach, it was my ass. And now thanks to Coney, my back looks like it should belong to some ugly hairy-armpitted hooker with a backless baby-doll dress and an acoustic guitar. Which body part will my next beach visit claim?
Instead, JerseyGirl's boyfriend had some sort of mini-triathlon to compete in at Coney Island, so she suggested I head down there. I was supposed to go to Coney with them a couple weeks ago for the annual mermaid parade, but the night before I drank an estimated twenty beers, and that's not exaggerating. I wound up taking home this Irish postdoc who spent most of the time processing about his duplicitous ex-girlfriend. I tried to get things moving in a naked-and-fucking direction by saying something along the lines of, "Cut the chit-chat, I'm ready to be flat on my bizack, dude." He then informed me that he couldn't fuck me because it's his policy to take women on a date first. I was like, "So let me get this straight: even though your clit-tease ass agreed to come home with me, and I'm currently sitting on your lap topless making out with you, you can't go the distance until you pony up for dinner and a fucking movie?" He responded that then we would go at it like rabbits. I snorted at him contemptuously and told him that his non-putting-out ass better go home and plan this fabulous date. He texted me later and I ignored it. Anyway, because of the heavy drinking occurring in concert with this aborted attempt to get laid, I was a wreck the next day and couldn't stop dry-heaving long enough to haul my sorry self to the D train and thus flaked on the mermaid parade. If that's not the epitome of sexy then I don't know what is.
So to make up for my failure to appear the last time JerseyGirl and Rack and their male companions went to Coney, I agreed to go this time. I was a little suspicious of what the beach would be like, because Brooklyn and Queens beaches are notorious for being stank and dirty. Rack and FalloniusMonk went to Far Rockaway in Queens a few years ago and there were syringes and diapers floating in the water. However, JerseyGirl assured me that Coney Island was fabulous and sparklingly clean. That just goes to show you should never trust beach and water quality assessments from a girl who grew up on the Jersey shore.
I was trying to figure out how to get there, when I remembered something I see every day but never paid much heed to:
Stupidly, I forgot about how miserably huge Brooklyn is. An hour later, when the conductor decided that, for whatever reason, the train I was on wasn't going all the way to Coney after all and I would have to transfer at some station way the hell out in buttfuck Brooklyn. Along with all the rest of the disgruntled passengers, I traipsed off to wait for the next train, which seemed to crawl along at a snail's pace until we finally pulled into the Stillwell Avenue station at Coney. I bought beer and ice for the cooler, then traipsed down the boardwalk looking for JerseyGirl.
I first noticed as I walked across the beach to join them that Coney Island is nothing like the other beaches I've been to on Long Island. The sand is so dirty that I swear it actually hurt my feet to walk over it. It reminded me of a gigantic version of one of those sand-filled ashtrays they used to have in malls and hotels back in the day where you could smoke there. However, after consuming a sixer of Modelo Especial, I was enjoying myself. Kodiak went on a run to Nathan's for hot dogs, and we were having a grand time in spite of the beach's nastiness, laughing at JerseyGirl's attempts to get me to go see a Bon Jovi concert in Newark with her, our shared hatred of people with atrocious spelling and grammar, and my extremely dim prospects of getting laid with any of the fellow beachgoers. Then JerseyGirl informed me that Rack and TheOldGuy were on their way.
"Can you ladies stop calling him 'the old guy' and 'the Brit' for a second? What's his actual name? I've hung out with him like ten times and I realized I don't even know his name," said Kodiak.
"Well, his last name is Bates," I said. "So you can call him 'Master Bates' like I do, and that is his real name. I expect they call people 'Master' instead of 'Mister' in England anyway."
TheOldGuy has a very good sense of humor about all the fun we have at his expense, and to demonstrate that, he showed up with another half-rack of beers to replenish the cooler. We were having a good time, except for the decided lack of hot dudes and/or hot girls available for me to pick up. Most of the people enjoying the sun and surf of Coney looked like this:
JerseyGirl: "Okay, seriously, you guys, this place is so romantic! It's just like the Jersey shore! I totally wish we could break out a Slippery When Wet CD...that would make it perfect!"
Rack: "What do y'all think that fuckin' giant red thing is for? This place is a fuckin' dump, y'all."
Razzy: "One finger is for the stank nastiness of this beach and the other is for making me come all the way out to Brooklyn for it! And if I had a third finger to flip off the camera with, it would be for the fact that the only weiner I've gotten here is two Nathan's famouses! But I'm drunk so I'm having fun anyway."
Ahh, Coney Island.
It wouldn't be a regular trip to the beach for me, though, if I didn't get a stupid, bizarre-looking sunburn. I've been trying to go with the marshmallow-roasting strategy of tanning this year. Much like a marshmallow, you can either slow-cook me to a nice golden brown over low heat, or just stick my ass into the flames and burn my ass to a blackened crisp. I've been applying lots of SPF 45 and trying to take the slow-cooking path. However, as is typical, I missed a couple of spots. So far, my ass and face have both suffered really stupid-looking sunburns, and this time, my back bore the brunt of uneven sunscreen application:
Since I don't have any tattoos, nor do I plan on getting any, I am most unhappy with the placement of this sunburn. I don't want to look like one of these dumb bitches. If anyone asks me where my bongo drums are because of this, that unfortunate individual is getting smacked the fuck up. Every beach I've visited so far has left its mark on me in the form of UV irradiation. At Fire Island's sunken forest, it was my face. At Long Beach, it was my ass. And now thanks to Coney, my back looks like it should belong to some ugly hairy-armpitted hooker with a backless baby-doll dress and an acoustic guitar. Which body part will my next beach visit claim?
Labels: JerseyGirl, NYC, oh the horror, Rack, Razzification
Sunday, July 01, 2007
I keep the LIRR interesting
One problem I have is my extremely distinctive speaking voice. Not only does my voice have a singular cadence and tone, but it carries long distances. This doesn't bother me, because I don't really care if people hear my conversations or not. Because of my tendency to use profanity frequently and fluently (especially various permutations of the word "fuck") others have tried (unsuccessfully) to quiet me down. This happens most often in the P-N-Dub, where people are quieter and not as accustomed to hearing random obscenities as people in New York. Last time I was home, chatting merrily away with Morrissey'sHair and Sexxica about dick, and Morrissey'sHair was like, "Razzy, take it down a few decibels! You can't just shout about blowjobs!" HotLawyer shushes me every time I'm out with him no matter where we are to the point that on several occasionsI've responded with "Okay, fine, DAD!" I was having lunch one time at some random Puyallup Mexican restaurant with MillerTime and she had to say, "Razzy! Lay off the 'fuck this' and 'fuck that', there are old ladies and children over there! This is a family establishment!" While most of the people who freak about my language are back in the 253 area code, it does happen once and awhile in New York, and lately seems to be mostly associated with travel on the Long Island Rail Road.
Several weekends ago, J-Sexy and I were actually shushed by a stranger on the LIRR on our way back from Fire Island while we were animatedly making plans to go strap-on shopping (I'm embracing my newly remembered bisexuality and J-Sexy is into pegging dudes). Since we had spent the day sitting in the sun and consuming an entire bottle of Puerto Rican rum mixed with Hawaiian Punch, I was in no mood to be addressed in such a condescending, motherly manner by some stringy old broad who appointed herself the LIRR speech police. I said very loudly that I would talk about strap-ons whenever and wherever I fucking pleased, and no shrew-ass bitch was going to take away my constitutional right to discuss sex toys or any other subject matter. The lady just quietly muttered to her husband about how awful we were and then sullenly would glare our way from time to time until we got to Penn Station. Sticks and stones may break my bones, hooker, but reproachful looks will never hurt me (or shut me up).
Yesterday, a similar incident occurred as I went to the beach with my friend Rack and her boyfriend TheOldGuy. TheOldGuy, who is a cable news producer, was telling us about how he worked with a woman who produces a recurring special on MSNBC about transgendered persons. Rack then cut in to say that one of the persons being profiled for the show was some pre-op F2M tranny from Raleigh, NC (her hometown), and this person was planning to go by "Rack" after her reassignment surgery. "It's not like there's that many lezzies in Raleigh!" she fumed (Rack used to be a lot more girl-on-girl inclined). "The trashy sonofabitch probably met me back when he was only out as a garden variety butch dyke and stole my goddamn name! I'm sure of it! I bet he went to Smith too!" During this whole soliloquy, this floppy old woman was eagerly listening in. She practically had her hand cupped around her ear to hear better. We weren't paying much attention to her.
Then, TheOldGuy mentioned that this producer of the tranny show was having all sorts of problems with her sick husband. He said that the husband was in the hospital with some sort of mystery infection and wondered if it had something to do with their child's recent bout with scarlet fever. I said that his symptoms sounded more viral to me. Scarlet fever is caused by a bacteria called Streptococcus pyogenes, and in adults this usually causes strep throat or occasionally necrotizing fascitis, better known as "flesh-eating" bacteria. Then I started telling a story about this woman I used to work with who had contracted flesh-eating bacteria through an infected hair follicle on her labia, and ultimately had pounds of gangrenous flesh removed from her abdomen and thighs. At this point, the floppy old butted in and said, "Excuse me, can you change the subject? Your conversations is not very pleasant." I said something like, "Yeah, okay, whatever" and proceeded to continue talking about it. If the nosy, interfering twat doesn't like my conversation, then instead of asking me to switch topics she should mind her own damn business and STOP FUCKING EAVESDROPPING!
Apart from a few dirty looks from her and her equally disapproving friend (who resembled the mummified corpse of Hatshepsut rocking a fugly flowered tank top and a crappy, ineffective Nice'n'Easy gray-covering dye job), we had an uneventful remainder of our trip to Long Beach with no further disturbances from any overstepping hooker-ass prostitutes. At the beach we spent the day swimming, sunning, and swilling beer. Apart from Rack spraining her ankle, we had a capital time. In spite of being a little tired out after the beach, I was nonetheless capable of talking loudly on the train back. Fortunately, the crowd on this train was far more appreciative of my conversational talents.
Somehow Rack and I got to discussing R. Kelly and his supreme awesomeness. I was clarifying why he's fully deserving of the lofty title of "the king of R&B," and it's not just because he's black, handsome, he sings, plus he's rich and he's a flirt. I was arguing that R&B would indeed be in dire straits without the R-uh's superior lyrical abilities. I was going off about memorable lyrics in various classic Kells tunes, such as "You Remind Me of Something" ("you remind me of my jeep, I want to ride"), "Don't You Say No" ("I ain't spendin' no cash if you ain't spendin' that ass","you say you want first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips"), and "R&B Thug" ("Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala"). Rack was riveted. Then we began discussing the styling choices in the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, in which Robert Sylvester rocks a ridiculous, asymmetrical half-corn-row/half-afro puff hairstyle and let's Lil' Kim and her REALLY busted blonde weave grind all up on him. Then Rack asked about "Trapped In the Closet," and I explained that it was R-dot's brilliant attempt at musical urban soap operatic film noir. I then began summing up the TITC storyline, providing the entire train with entertainment for the remainder of the trip. When I got to the end of chapter 5, where R. Kelly's character Sylvester throws his suspiciously exuberant wife off his dick, pulls back the bedcovers, and finds the used condom left from her adulterous tryst with the chain-smoking cop that pulled him over on his way home, I paused. This prompted someone several rows of seats back on the train to call, "Is that the end? Please finish the story!"
I obliged. Occasionally there would be a crowd reaction to statements such as "and now, thankfully, I know that a gun is a much more effective weapon than a spatula" and "I think it's generally a bad idea to assume that R. Kelly would graciously accept being cuckolded," but I was typically oblivious to the fact that I was commanding everyone's undividing attention. By the time I'd summarized all twelve chapters and got to the, "then Kells whips out his trusty Beretta and the midget literally shits his pants in terror", there was laughter from eavesdroppers all around us. Once I concluded the thrilling tale, several rows of passengers applauded me for my storytelling prowess. "Dude, they're clapping for you, Razzy!" Rack said. Up until this point, I was unaware that everyone had been paying such close attention, but I was relieved to get an ovation instead of a lecture or a pointedly bitchy look. In the future, people listening to my booming voice should consider themselves lucky to get a free performance.
And since you surely are now intrigued, here are chapters 1-5 of Trapped In the Closet, just because Robert Sylvester Kelly is the dope shit:
Several weekends ago, J-Sexy and I were actually shushed by a stranger on the LIRR on our way back from Fire Island while we were animatedly making plans to go strap-on shopping (I'm embracing my newly remembered bisexuality and J-Sexy is into pegging dudes). Since we had spent the day sitting in the sun and consuming an entire bottle of Puerto Rican rum mixed with Hawaiian Punch, I was in no mood to be addressed in such a condescending, motherly manner by some stringy old broad who appointed herself the LIRR speech police. I said very loudly that I would talk about strap-ons whenever and wherever I fucking pleased, and no shrew-ass bitch was going to take away my constitutional right to discuss sex toys or any other subject matter. The lady just quietly muttered to her husband about how awful we were and then sullenly would glare our way from time to time until we got to Penn Station. Sticks and stones may break my bones, hooker, but reproachful looks will never hurt me (or shut me up).
Yesterday, a similar incident occurred as I went to the beach with my friend Rack and her boyfriend TheOldGuy. TheOldGuy, who is a cable news producer, was telling us about how he worked with a woman who produces a recurring special on MSNBC about transgendered persons. Rack then cut in to say that one of the persons being profiled for the show was some pre-op F2M tranny from Raleigh, NC (her hometown), and this person was planning to go by "Rack" after her reassignment surgery. "It's not like there's that many lezzies in Raleigh!" she fumed (Rack used to be a lot more girl-on-girl inclined). "The trashy sonofabitch probably met me back when he was only out as a garden variety butch dyke and stole my goddamn name! I'm sure of it! I bet he went to Smith too!" During this whole soliloquy, this floppy old woman was eagerly listening in. She practically had her hand cupped around her ear to hear better. We weren't paying much attention to her.
Then, TheOldGuy mentioned that this producer of the tranny show was having all sorts of problems with her sick husband. He said that the husband was in the hospital with some sort of mystery infection and wondered if it had something to do with their child's recent bout with scarlet fever. I said that his symptoms sounded more viral to me. Scarlet fever is caused by a bacteria called Streptococcus pyogenes, and in adults this usually causes strep throat or occasionally necrotizing fascitis, better known as "flesh-eating" bacteria. Then I started telling a story about this woman I used to work with who had contracted flesh-eating bacteria through an infected hair follicle on her labia, and ultimately had pounds of gangrenous flesh removed from her abdomen and thighs. At this point, the floppy old butted in and said, "Excuse me, can you change the subject? Your conversations is not very pleasant." I said something like, "Yeah, okay, whatever" and proceeded to continue talking about it. If the nosy, interfering twat doesn't like my conversation, then instead of asking me to switch topics she should mind her own damn business and STOP FUCKING EAVESDROPPING!
Apart from a few dirty looks from her and her equally disapproving friend (who resembled the mummified corpse of Hatshepsut rocking a fugly flowered tank top and a crappy, ineffective Nice'n'Easy gray-covering dye job), we had an uneventful remainder of our trip to Long Beach with no further disturbances from any overstepping hooker-ass prostitutes. At the beach we spent the day swimming, sunning, and swilling beer. Apart from Rack spraining her ankle, we had a capital time. In spite of being a little tired out after the beach, I was nonetheless capable of talking loudly on the train back. Fortunately, the crowd on this train was far more appreciative of my conversational talents.
Somehow Rack and I got to discussing R. Kelly and his supreme awesomeness. I was clarifying why he's fully deserving of the lofty title of "the king of R&B," and it's not just because he's black, handsome, he sings, plus he's rich and he's a flirt. I was arguing that R&B would indeed be in dire straits without the R-uh's superior lyrical abilities. I was going off about memorable lyrics in various classic Kells tunes, such as "You Remind Me of Something" ("you remind me of my jeep, I want to ride"), "Don't You Say No" ("I ain't spendin' no cash if you ain't spendin' that ass","you say you want first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips"), and "R&B Thug" ("Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala"). Rack was riveted. Then we began discussing the styling choices in the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, in which Robert Sylvester rocks a ridiculous, asymmetrical half-corn-row/half-afro puff hairstyle and let's Lil' Kim and her REALLY busted blonde weave grind all up on him. Then Rack asked about "Trapped In the Closet," and I explained that it was R-dot's brilliant attempt at musical urban soap operatic film noir. I then began summing up the TITC storyline, providing the entire train with entertainment for the remainder of the trip. When I got to the end of chapter 5, where R. Kelly's character Sylvester throws his suspiciously exuberant wife off his dick, pulls back the bedcovers, and finds the used condom left from her adulterous tryst with the chain-smoking cop that pulled him over on his way home, I paused. This prompted someone several rows of seats back on the train to call, "Is that the end? Please finish the story!"
I obliged. Occasionally there would be a crowd reaction to statements such as "and now, thankfully, I know that a gun is a much more effective weapon than a spatula" and "I think it's generally a bad idea to assume that R. Kelly would graciously accept being cuckolded," but I was typically oblivious to the fact that I was commanding everyone's undividing attention. By the time I'd summarized all twelve chapters and got to the, "then Kells whips out his trusty Beretta and the midget literally shits his pants in terror", there was laughter from eavesdroppers all around us. Once I concluded the thrilling tale, several rows of passengers applauded me for my storytelling prowess. "Dude, they're clapping for you, Razzy!" Rack said. Up until this point, I was unaware that everyone had been paying such close attention, but I was relieved to get an ovation instead of a lecture or a pointedly bitchy look. In the future, people listening to my booming voice should consider themselves lucky to get a free performance.
And since you surely are now intrigued, here are chapters 1-5 of Trapped In the Closet, just because Robert Sylvester Kelly is the dope shit:
Labels: assholes, defiance, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, MTA, NYC, Rack, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Monday, June 18, 2007
One of the biannual instances in which I was embarrassed
I don't get embarrassed very easily, but every once in awhile, I feel strange burning sensations in my face that puzzle me until I remember that's what shame feels like. Oddly enough, I tend to only feel this way because of something that's not really my fault, like I spill a bunch of buffer on my crotch at work and thus look like I wet my pants or something. It's not my fault the way that me getting drunk, flashing my tits to everyone in sight, and pissing in full view of the traffic on 14th Street is my fault; I'm not embarrassed about doing stuff like that, so it's odd that I get embarrassed about accidents. However, I do, and this weekend I got to experience that firsthand.
I spent most of the weekend safely tucked away working where nothing too embarrassing could occur (and even if it did, it's not like anyone was there to see; J-Sexy was getting her hair done and the other girl in our lab NEVER goes in on weekends). However, on Saturday night, I went out with Rack and her boyfriend The Old Guy for some cocktails and fried foods at McAleer's, this bar we frequent on the Upper West Side. We go there because we can sit outside, and because it's relatively cheap. We all had a nice time, drinking summery beverages (scotch and beer), talking about David Lynch movies and cocaine and my sex life and The Old Guy's 14-year-old son's punk friends and this very website. (Rack, in fact, complained that she doesn't get enough shoutouts, so...HEY RACK, WHAT'S UP? I'M JUST SAYING HI TO MY FRIEND RACK! LET'S GO TO McALEER'S WITH JERSEYGIRL SOMETIME THIS WEEK AGAIN, OKAY?) We had a nice time, and then decided to head our separate ways.
As I was about to leave, it did not escape my notice that there was a Tasti-D-Lite across the street from McAleer's. Tasti-D-Lite is this frozen yogurt-type substance that has like three calories in it. You could eat your weight in Tasti-D and probably not gain a pound. The same is not true for their wide selection of toppings, as I'm pretty sure their chocolate chips and M&Ms aren't fat free, but nonetheless, I always gladly rush to Tasti-D for a large cup of whatever-the-hell-their-frozen-dessert is with cookie crunch on top. I decided that this would be nice for my cab ride home and my mild buzz.
I said adios to Rack and The Old Guy, then trekked across Amsterdam, eager to see what flavors they had. There was a bit of a line, so while I waited for some bitch to hem and haw about what she wanted in her waffle cone, I got to check out the selection of both flavors and other customers. This couple came in behind me and the girl was really annoying. She was treating everyone to a loud debate with herself about whether she should get Oreo or cheesecake-flavored Tasti-D. I turned around to see if she looked as irritating as she sounded (she did), and caught a glimpse of her boyfriend. He was hot. Such a shame, I thought, that a perfectly fuckable specimen like him was stuck with such a nagging, shrill shrew of a woman.
Then it was my turn to order, and while the Tasti-D-Lite employee set up my cup of Oreo with cookie crunch on top, I kept giving covert looks in the direction of the annoying girl's hot boyfriend. Every time I'd look back out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at my ass. "Ha!" I thought to myself. "While you're busy being indecisive about which Tasti-D flavor you like, your hot boyfriend is checking out my ass! Razzy wins again and as usual! Stupid bitch!" As I grabbed my frozen treat and prepared to depart, I swiveled around all the way to give him a view of my tits, since I was wearing a typically cleavage-baring halter top. We made eye contact and I gave him what I thought was my standard I'm-sexy-and-I-know-it smirk. He smirked back, but in a way that was pointedly less sexy and more amused (at me, not with me), and slightly pitying. I was taken aback and rushed out in a state of confusion and turmoil. I was expecting some fuck me eyes, not the look he gave me. Why did he look at me so weird?
My Tasti-D-Lite was nowhere near as much of a tasty delight as it should have been because I was trying to solve the riddle of the hot guy giving me weird looks. Unfortunately, when I arrived home, I changed into loungewear and discovered with shock and horror what the problem was: a huge PERIOD STAIN on my skirt!
I thought my period was over, and since I'm on the pill, usually when it's over, it's completely over. Not this weekend. I must have had some spotting or something and thus had a bloodstain the size of a baseball right below my ass. Even though I was home alone when I finally discovered why hot boyfriend guy was giving me such strange face, I was completely mortified. I know I'm not the first girl ever to have this type of feminine accident, but since we ladies have an unspoken compact with the rest of the world to keep our menstrual cycles as under wraps and out of the public eye as possible, it was nonetheless humiliating. I'd rather have my mom find a hundred pictures of me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed on her computer desktop than suffer unknown period stain ignonimy at the Tasti-D-Lite at the hands (or actually, the eyes) of a hot guy. If anyone could have seen me at home, they'd see my face growing to a deeper shade of magenta than the linen skirt I'd soiled.
Unfortunately, this whole incident made the Tasti-D more bitter than the herbs Jews eat at Passover to remind them of their days of captivity in Goshen. Alas, I was humiliated. On the bright side, however, that means I've gotten one instance of being ashamed out of the way for this year. That means I'll have to suffer through this once (maybe twice, tops) more this year. Hopefully the next time I get embarrassed, there will be neither a period stain nor a hot guy involved. Uff da.
I spent most of the weekend safely tucked away working where nothing too embarrassing could occur (and even if it did, it's not like anyone was there to see; J-Sexy was getting her hair done and the other girl in our lab NEVER goes in on weekends). However, on Saturday night, I went out with Rack and her boyfriend The Old Guy for some cocktails and fried foods at McAleer's, this bar we frequent on the Upper West Side. We go there because we can sit outside, and because it's relatively cheap. We all had a nice time, drinking summery beverages (scotch and beer), talking about David Lynch movies and cocaine and my sex life and The Old Guy's 14-year-old son's punk friends and this very website. (Rack, in fact, complained that she doesn't get enough shoutouts, so...HEY RACK, WHAT'S UP? I'M JUST SAYING HI TO MY FRIEND RACK! LET'S GO TO McALEER'S WITH JERSEYGIRL SOMETIME THIS WEEK AGAIN, OKAY?) We had a nice time, and then decided to head our separate ways.
As I was about to leave, it did not escape my notice that there was a Tasti-D-Lite across the street from McAleer's. Tasti-D-Lite is this frozen yogurt-type substance that has like three calories in it. You could eat your weight in Tasti-D and probably not gain a pound. The same is not true for their wide selection of toppings, as I'm pretty sure their chocolate chips and M&Ms aren't fat free, but nonetheless, I always gladly rush to Tasti-D for a large cup of whatever-the-hell-their-frozen-dessert is with cookie crunch on top. I decided that this would be nice for my cab ride home and my mild buzz.
I said adios to Rack and The Old Guy, then trekked across Amsterdam, eager to see what flavors they had. There was a bit of a line, so while I waited for some bitch to hem and haw about what she wanted in her waffle cone, I got to check out the selection of both flavors and other customers. This couple came in behind me and the girl was really annoying. She was treating everyone to a loud debate with herself about whether she should get Oreo or cheesecake-flavored Tasti-D. I turned around to see if she looked as irritating as she sounded (she did), and caught a glimpse of her boyfriend. He was hot. Such a shame, I thought, that a perfectly fuckable specimen like him was stuck with such a nagging, shrill shrew of a woman.
Then it was my turn to order, and while the Tasti-D-Lite employee set up my cup of Oreo with cookie crunch on top, I kept giving covert looks in the direction of the annoying girl's hot boyfriend. Every time I'd look back out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at my ass. "Ha!" I thought to myself. "While you're busy being indecisive about which Tasti-D flavor you like, your hot boyfriend is checking out my ass! Razzy wins again and as usual! Stupid bitch!" As I grabbed my frozen treat and prepared to depart, I swiveled around all the way to give him a view of my tits, since I was wearing a typically cleavage-baring halter top. We made eye contact and I gave him what I thought was my standard I'm-sexy-and-I-know-it smirk. He smirked back, but in a way that was pointedly less sexy and more amused (at me, not with me), and slightly pitying. I was taken aback and rushed out in a state of confusion and turmoil. I was expecting some fuck me eyes, not the look he gave me. Why did he look at me so weird?
My Tasti-D-Lite was nowhere near as much of a tasty delight as it should have been because I was trying to solve the riddle of the hot guy giving me weird looks. Unfortunately, when I arrived home, I changed into loungewear and discovered with shock and horror what the problem was: a huge PERIOD STAIN on my skirt!
I thought my period was over, and since I'm on the pill, usually when it's over, it's completely over. Not this weekend. I must have had some spotting or something and thus had a bloodstain the size of a baseball right below my ass. Even though I was home alone when I finally discovered why hot boyfriend guy was giving me such strange face, I was completely mortified. I know I'm not the first girl ever to have this type of feminine accident, but since we ladies have an unspoken compact with the rest of the world to keep our menstrual cycles as under wraps and out of the public eye as possible, it was nonetheless humiliating. I'd rather have my mom find a hundred pictures of me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed on her computer desktop than suffer unknown period stain ignonimy at the Tasti-D-Lite at the hands (or actually, the eyes) of a hot guy. If anyone could have seen me at home, they'd see my face growing to a deeper shade of magenta than the linen skirt I'd soiled.
Unfortunately, this whole incident made the Tasti-D more bitter than the herbs Jews eat at Passover to remind them of their days of captivity in Goshen. Alas, I was humiliated. On the bright side, however, that means I've gotten one instance of being ashamed out of the way for this year. That means I'll have to suffer through this once (maybe twice, tops) more this year. Hopefully the next time I get embarrassed, there will be neither a period stain nor a hot guy involved. Uff da.
Labels: gross, hot dudes, NYC, oh the horror, Rack, Razzification, stank vaginas
Friday, April 13, 2007
What would Rush and Samantha say?
Yesterday Dlisted informed me that the hotness that is Ian Ziering was offered $100,000 to pose nude in Playgirl. In case you don't watch "Dancing with the Stars" (which I don't, but which he is now on), you may best remember Ian from his role as the lovable and mischievious Steve Sanders on what critics unanimously agree is the greatest television show of all time: "Beverly Hills, 90210." Steve Sanders was always my favorite dude on Niner. Brandon was too much of a self-righteous tattletale, Dylan was always too brooding, whiny, and generally unable to deal, and David Silver always looked twelve, even in later years when he pioneered the semi-bearded look that Justin Timberlake rocks now to great effect. Steve wa